My Coast Is The Best Coast

January 03, 2010

You enjoy lifting heavy things, so you probably spend a lot of time wishing you could shovel snow. I know you're interested in water, too, and all of the various engineering strategies for its containment and movement. So you probably daydream about snow, and think about methods for moving it and storing it.

Moving to our new place has changed our shoveling challenges a little bit. We no longer have a garage, nor a big yard, and our house is tightly wedged in a small lot, on a steep slope. This means there are few places to put the snow -- you really have to pick it up and walk it to the backyard, because if you just scoop and toss it'll go into the neighbor's walkway, or it will quickly create a wall of snow so high that your next shovelfull will just slide back down the face. It means snowmelt from our neighbor's roof turns to a treacherous flow of ice along the steepest part of our driveway, just where you need the little extra bit of traction to get the car up and over on to safety. There's a fire hydrant immediately flanking our driveway entrance, and you can't pile up your snow on top of that, plus the firemen come around after every big storm and dig out the hydrants, dumping their snow willy nilly into our driveway after we've cleared it.

The good news is that the city comes by with a little minitruck and plows and sands our sidewalk. Eventually. Also the direction of the plow usually means that we don't get the brunt of the neighborhood's snow at the end of our driveway, which was the case at our old house.

While shoveling today, I was thinking about some of the questions you might have about the whole process. I'm happy to share what I've learned. First, you want a bent-handle shovel. It's easier on your back over time. I don't think there's much of an advantage to the metal-tipped blade, though. Theoretically it helps you scrape the ice off the pavement, but if you have a bumpy brick surface to shovel, chances are the metal blade will either get damaged or just won't work at all. It's not a bad idea to have a special shovel just for scraping ice -- that one, of course, will have a narrow metal blade and a straight handle. And then you'll need a way to sprinkle the salt-sand mixture over the pavement where it ices up the worst. We use a spade for that, but you may find another way.

Second, we all wonder about the efficacy of the mid-storm shovel. You know, when you're expecting twelve inches, and it's going to snow all day, and you look out the window and see six inches out there, should you go out and shovel so that you'll have half as much work at the end of the storm? I'm coming to believe that that's a waste of time. Go get the plow's pile at the end of the driveway, and clear a path for the mailman, but save your shoveling efforts for when the storm is over. Otherwise the wind will just blow everything around and when you go back out you won't be able to tell that you spent any time shoveling at all.

Third, you probably know this, but of course it is important to treat January snow differently than February and March snow. For the January storms, you must shovel a wide, thorough, deep path. You must patiently carry the snow all the way to the backyard, because you know that the snow is going to be where you put it for months, and it will thaw and freeze and thaw and freeze until it is as hard as concrete. If you do not do a good job now, you can never repair your error and your driveway and paths will just get narrower and narrower all winter. In February you can start to cut corners, and by March you may be so bitter and weary that you will do only what is minimally necessary to get to your car. But in January, you must take pride in a wide and clean path.

December 11, 2009

This morning I got up while it was dark, checked my phone -- no cancellation message, drat -- and suited up. I put on SmartWool socks, medium thickness, a medium weight pair of capilene long underwear, warm cross-country skiing training pants, and a gore-tex windpant. On my upper body I wore a cotton undershirt, a capilene layer, a fleece hoody, and a windbreaker. Gloves, scarf, hat.

Met my walking pal for a walk. It was still dark when we started. The path was mostly clear, with some crunchy ice patches. It was 21 degrees, but the wind was fierce -- about 20 miles an hour -- and so it felt cold. I was warm enough, mostly, because I did a good job getting dressed.

We spent the first 10 minutes of our walk chatting happily about what we were wearing. Getting dressed for the cold, what you choose and whether it works or not, is almost always an interesting conversation here. I should have worn a balaclava, because my face was pinchy-cold, and my ears really started to sing with discomfort. My friend chose down, and we discussed that for a while. Down is rarely a good choice if you're active at all -- it is too warm for real activity, you end up hot. Indeed, my friend took off her gloves sooner than I did.

Anyway, I thought about you, over there in Sacramento, and I really wondered: what's the California equivalent of conversations about outerwear? In Maine you can almost always talk about it: waterproofness, warmth, weight, smelliness, cost. Getting dressed right is hard, and you can never have enough information about how to do it better. Do you guys talk about wicking and breathability? Do you talk about irrigation and water conservation? What does everyone talk about if not how to stay warm?

August 19, 2009

Friend, it has been over 90 degrees for days and days. Like, for four or five days, in a row. It is impossible to think in such weather. I lie in bed with a wet towel on top of me and listen to the fan and a fly buzzing somewhere, and I can't imagine mustering the strength to lift my head. I can't sleep, but reading would require turning on a light, and lights produce heat, which is totally unacceptable. How do people live in places where this is part of life? When it is cold, you can put things on your body that make you less cold. When it is hot and thick like this, what can you do except dive off the dock into the ocean? (I did that at lunch on Monday, and it was wonderful, but unfortunately I couldn't stay in the water all day.)

Today we will get a thunderstorm, I am told, and this terrible heat will break.

April 19, 2009

Listen, I have already acknowledged that you win as far as agriculture and plant production goes. So it's sort of silly for you to be rubbing my nose in it with all your flower pictures. My small brown scruffy yard cannot compare. Must I remind you that I live in America's most livable city, that we are always featured in hip architecture and lifestyle magazines for our arty sensibility and our good restaurants? If we were forever smelling our flowers and sitting in the sun, how could we get anything done? We PREFER our late spring. I am GLAD we have another month before frost danger is over.

We bought this house in the winter, and we never saw the yard without snow. We live right downtown, on a hill, and the backyard is a secret surprise. (Since we moved here I have become very snoopy, peeking whenever I can to catch a glimpse of other city backyards -- there are some unexpected hidden treasures here in the West End.) It's small but private and we are interested to see what the shoots peeking up will unfurl themselves to become. Here are some pictures of the yard as it is. Want to redesign it for us?

We planted herbs and pansies into containers yesterday, and spent some time sitting in our green chairs speculating about what we might do in the yard. I think it makes some sense to live in it for a summer before we start making big changes. We need to see how the sun moves and where we like to sit in the evenings and what's already planted. Also, of course, waiting and watching is much more pleasant than hauling around lots of rocks and mulch. I like the idea of gardening much more than I actually like gardening. Containers and window boxes are just about right for me. My morning glory and nasturtium seeds are sitting in packets, waiting until it is warm enough to plant them outside. That's my summer gardening plan. When you move here, I would be happy to sit in one of the green chairs reading a book and talking now and then to you while you work in the yard. I will make a pitcher of iced tea and pour you a glass and invite you to sit down and rest now and then.

March 09, 2009

March is full of mindgames and disappointment, but this weekend we had two days above 50 in a row. That melts the snow, sure, but it does other things that put you in a good mood. In the woods you can smell the trees -- the groves where there are sunny patches have a smell, earthy green, that I think is the smell of bark and maybe even rising sap. You don't smell it in the shady places. That's true other places, too. In the backyard or walking across campus you can smell dirt again. Sure, it's not like smelling flowers, but warming up earth smells alright. You realize you missed it over the winter. Your feet squish in the muddy spots. The colors are brown and blue-white. The remaining snow, and yes, there's a lot of it, is grainy and slushy. The sun is thin, but it still feels good.

February 24, 2009

Dear friend, I know that you are curious about the character-building environment here in northern New England. I can assure you that it is full of challenges, all of which are great opportunities for personal growth. Living in a sunshine-flooded world dripping with citrus fruits and honey hasn't taught you the personal stamina that we Mainers know. I guess that's why you have to lift heavy objects for fun. When I want to test the vigor of my back and shoulders, I just wait for the next snowstorm.

Our furnace stopped working the other day. It got cold. This teaches stamina way better than any kind of bench press.

We got lots of snow the other night. Until we close on the house we're selling, I get to shovel two driveways. How many driveways do you get to shovel?

But look how pretty the trees are on campus. This kind of vertical snow adhesion happens when a storm starts out with mist and ice and sleet, and then the snow is blown horizontally, and it sticks to the wet icy surfaces. Your trees are pretty and all, with their "leaves" and their "flowers." But can they do this?

December 09, 2008

Hi, friend. Sorry I have been scarce around here. The reason is that NBT and I have been house shopping for the last few months, and we finally bought a house over the weekend. The details are boring, but there's been lots of mental energy locked up in the research and worry and negotiations. And there will be lots more preoccupation, daydreaming, and abject terror in the weeks ahead, until we close and move in, and, oh yeah, sell our current house.

But I wanted to tell you about this morning. I woke up super early, in the pre-dawn greyness. The radiator was making a periodic sighing hiss, as though it was breathing. I lay there under the heavy quilt listening to the radiator and my husband and each of my two dogs, each with a distinctive exhale. I knew there would be snow coming down today, on top of the snow outside. I was perfectly warm in the pocket of sheets and quilt around me, but my face was a little bit cold. There's something magical about sleeping on a winter night, with snow falling outside and the radiator shhhhhing warmly in the corner, frost making patterns on the windowpane and the weight of thick blankets on your chest and the breath of those you love coming steadily and quietly. You can't have that kind of contentment on a balmy warm night. It's a particular form of happiness that requires the cold.

November 10, 2008

It's frostbite sailing season. Yesterday was windy, with big shifty puffs coming off the land. Low grey clouds were scattered enough to let streaks of sunshine in, slanty and yellow and lighting up the boats and some trees on the distant shores. Days like yesterday pull me through the damp chilly gloom of November.

October 31, 2008

You don't cut your hair off in November! Your poor neck is going to get so cold, and you can pull down your woolly hat and pull up your collar but that's what hair is for, the insulation on that tender slice of skin between the scarf and the hat. When you go outside in the chilly half-dark morning with the dogs, a little bit sleepy because it's still gloomy and grey and so you don't double check for leaks in your armor, you will miss that hair.

No, you cut your hair off in late May, so the soft warm breezes can tickle the new, curious, hidden, extra-sensitive skin on the back of your neck, and you feel it as an awakening that mingles with the smell of fresh dirt and the emerging leaves and makes you want to burst with happiness.

For now, protect yourself. It's twenty-five degrees outside, for heavens' sake! Don't forget to take your soft cardigan to work, to hang on the back of your chair, in case your office gets cold. And some tea, to hold in your hands.

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I didn't set out to make this comparison, and maybe it it is grandiose, but I am embattled and prepared for a presidential loss. I see people like you, exposing themselves to hope, and I turn up my collar and wrap my scarf around myself another time. I actually get angry at the media now, going past the election, speculating about who might be in an Obama cabinet. Please, no, stop talking. This feels so dangerous, like a visceral threat. If I hope now the disappointment will be unbearable, and I guess I am afraid of that. I am afraid people will see it as a given, and won't bother to go vote, or the bad guys, infuriated, will do something very bad that changes the outcome. This seems like a reversal of our usual roles, me usually all full of rose-colored dreamy faith in people's goodness, you fierce and dismissive of the many fools who hold power, but there it is. I do not trust the world on this one point, and I am afraid that if I hope fully I will be heartsick on Wednesday.

October 18, 2008

This tree is on the path I walk when I go to swim at lunch. These photos were taken over the course of a week. Yesterday there were no leaves left, and I wanted, bleakly, to take a picture but had forgotten my camera. It's just as well. The trees are becoming skeletons now. Even the pine trees are dropping needles everywhere. It's a myth that they are implacable. They shed, too, just not quite as visibly as their deciduous cousins.

This is a hard time of year for me. Oh, yes, the leaves are great and the sky is such a piercing blue and the sun is all slanty low and yellow. It smells great, all these smoky leafy smells, with the tang of cold weather pinching the inside of your nostrils, too. And on rainy dark nights there's something extra spooky about the windows rattling, and leaves blowing all around everywhere. It's like your own horror picture, all the prickly props there for your imagination.

But oh, it's dark so early. And everyone who knows me will be rolling their eyes, because this becomes my mantra. Can you BELIEVE how DARK it is? How EARLY? I mean, it is SO DARK. ALREADY. And then I get all overdramatic. We still have more than a month. The days are getting even shorter. Pretty soon it's going to be dark all the time. Dark when we wake up. Dark when we leave the office. Dark for the whole drive home. Dark dark dark dark dark. I don't mind the cold so much as the dark, and I don't think I mind the dark so much as the GETTING DARK, the days slipping into night at this crazy restless pace. One day the tree is full of leaves and the next day its a grey skeleton. One day I can walk the dogs around the block after work, admiring the glowing sunset and how it illuminates the windows on the island houses across the bay. And the next day I get home from work and it's already dark out, and I want to hibernate and eat dinner at 6 and get into bed at 7:15.

I'll get through this, I suppose, when December comes and it's all lovely and see-your-breath frosty and there's snow on the ground and I can get all rhapsodic about cross country skiing and the beautiful frost patterns on the windowpanes. But late October and November are very tough. Go ahead and start with the gloating. This is your time to shine.

Rhubarb Pie

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